Awakening the Alpha

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Logan Rider strode toward the range office with a lighter step. He’d enjoyed the class and found the instructor unusual and interesting. In fact, he fascinated Logan. Blaze Canis had what was known as presence. He seemed to fill the room, not just because he was a large man but because there was no question that he was in charge. There was an air of relaxed confidence about him and an acute awareness of the students. He’d been particularly perceptive about Skeeter, who was obviously insecure in the company of mature men and hungry for recognition. Canis had taken the perfect way to allow the teen to feel he belonged.

The face and form of the man intrigued him as much as the way he’d handled the class. His face alone cried out to Logan to be sketched, with its well-proportioned nose and the fine crow’s feet showing at the corners of his eyes when he smiled. His lips were just full enough to appeal, and high on his forehead above his left eye was a silvery scar half an inch wide running into his hair line. Considering his background, it was probably a graze from a bullet. His face had character and matched the man.

At just over six feet, Canis’s build was solid and fit, with long legs and a reach to match. With his artist’s eye, Logan guessed his weight at a hundred and eighty to ninety-five pounds. When he’d leaned down to inspect the revolver Logan had brought, Logan had glanced down on the instructor’s head and wondered who, if anyone, had styled the man’s hair. It was short and untamed, running every which way. Periodically, Canis would run his fingers through it, as if to bring about order that never happened. Logan was sure this was an unconscious act.

Wiry, with shades of gray, hints of black, and a touch of reddish brown, the hair was white at the temples.

Logan’s hair hadn’t been cut since birth, and it was easy to brush it and let it fall free, tuck it behind his ears, braid, or fasten it in back. Yet he couldn’t imagine this man letting his hair grow much longer. It wouldn’t suit him the way the untamed look did.

There had been that odd moment when Logan looked into his green eyes and was almost hypnotized by the tiny flecks of mustard and gold in them. In those brief seconds, the gold seemed to spin a thread toward him and connect. He’d felt tethered to this stranger in an intensely s****l way, almost as if the thread had lassoed his d**k and balls. His p***s had responded by beginning to fill.

With the feeling came a vision of a four-legged animal in the misty distance. From its ears, he could tell it was Coyote, the Trickster. The creature that enjoyed playing humorous or, often, cruel tricks on humans.

What the f**k?

The instructor had looked away, breaking the contact. The feeling dissipated. Yet the abruptness with which he’d turned made Logan suspect Canis had felt something unusual as well. Logan wondered if it too was deeply s****l. If it conjured up visions of naked bodies, hot and sweaty in rumpled sheets, hands on the other man’s big c**k. Of grunts and groans as they stroked and strained to reach that brief moment of pumping before they spurted their slippery, silvery seed on each other’s bellies and hands.

The thought came to him that if he still lived on a reservation, he might’ve heard the tribal shaman shake his gourd rattle and chant to the tight tempo of the elders’ small drums sending him a message. A warning?

Well, there’s a helluva thing to think about, Logan Swift Rider.

It was so ridiculous, he laughed at himself. Still, he wondered how Canis’s lips would feel pressed against his own and if his primed c**k would feel like steel in a velvet glove in Logan’s hand or deep in his ass. There was no harm in wondering, but it was best to keep the Trickster in mind.

Inside the office, a petite but older blonde woman looked up and smiled. “What can I do for you, sir?”

Her face changed when she took in what he was.

Annoyance thrummed through him. You’d have thought he was a Muslim terrorist. Even in this day and age, there were people who feared Indians…almost as if they expected to be robbed or scalped. True, some Natives were druggies, drunks, and thieves—as some whites were—and this woman didn’t know him. Being an inch or two taller than Canis and heavier might have intimidated her. Still, since he was polite and dressed in clean, new clothes consisting of tan cargo pants, a V-neck tee and expensive boots, there should have been nothing threatening about him.

In the abrupt pause that followed her greeting, Logan said, “Mr. Canis told me I could sign up here for a private appointment with him on the shooting range.”

Naming Canis apparently created a stamp of approval, for she dropped her gaze and busied herself with the appointment book. “Hand or long gun?”

“Hand. As soon as he has an opening I can make.”

She handed him a card with a time the day after next.

“Thanks,” he said

“Check in here in the office. Mr. Canis will meet you and take you to the range. Remember, Montana has an open-carry rule, but you need a permit if you conceal your weapon.”

It seemed obvious she hadn’t bothered to see the revolver holstered in plain sight on his hip. “Yes, ma’am. I was born in Montana.” He smiled at the wary woman.

What he really wanted to do was lean in and say, Boo!

But he didn’t. She was so tense, she’d probably have a heart attack. As a Shoshone warrior, he was required to respect his elders.

He climbed into his sports car, which had never been available for public sale because it was a concept crossover vehicle. He’d purchased it secondhand from a company exec. When the two doors of his Hyundai NEOS were open, the deeply bronzed car resembled a flying insect with wings. Logan was the second owner and had had it a while, but he loved it. There was a certain humor to driving it into the park, because it resembled a great beetle in all that wildness.

The motel outside Montana’s West Yellowstone gate into the park was his first stop. He checked into a clean room nicely furnished in earth tones and tossed his duffle onto the bed. He unzipped and took a pee, then washed his hands and face when he’d finished. The altitude was dehydrating, so he filled a glass with water and drank it down. The water was naturally soft and sweet to the taste. To satisfy his rising appetite, he walked to a nearby café and ordered a large sandwich, fries, and a soft drink for lunch. A slice of pumpkin pie a la mode served as his dessert.

He was back in his room and had just finished brushing his teeth when his cell chimed. “Hello.”

“It’s your lover man, Bernard, here. How’s the trip?”

There was a time in the past when he’d have been happy to hear from Bernie, but his cloying dependence on Logan was wearing thin. They’d quarreled when he left for this trip, and the call seemed intrusive, showing a lack of regard for Logan’s need to be alone for this special journey. Bernard was taking his vacation too, and he’d been beyond miffed because Logan insisted on traveling without him.

“I could fly out and join you. Rent a car and be there tonight.”

As he’d explained before he started on this journey, Logan sighed as weariness flooded him. “This is a trip back to my childhood. I’m going to visit my grandfather.”

“So…you’re saying I’m not good enough to meet your family?” Bernie’s voice rose higher until it reached a shrill whine.

“I’ll be staying with him on the reservation,” Logan said with all the patience he could muster. The whine grated on his nerves. A sound in recent months that had become increasingly irritating.

“Oh, don’t pull that Indian stuff on me. A lot of whites visit reservations.”

“You don’t understand. We can’t share a bed in my grandfather’s house.”

“Then we’ll stay in a motel.”

Logan checked his watch. “As I told you before I left, there are no motels anywhere near the reservation, and I came here to spend time with my grandfather.” Not to f**k and fight with you. Or listen to your whines. “Look. I’ve got to get going, and I don’t have time to go over what’s already been settled. I’ll call you when I get back in town.”

Or maybe I won’t.

Like a hunter’s arrow piercing his brain, the realization struck Logan that he and Bernard didn’t belong together. They never had. Their only connection had been hot, driving, urgent, and satisfying s*x, but never about who they were or what interests they shared. As the relationship continued, Bernard became more and more clingy until he’d turned into the demanding person Logan had just spoken with.

I may call because I said I would, but if I do, it will be to break up with you.

Showing his Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood at the gate, he was waved through without paying an entry fee. Logan could have well afforded the fee, but, despite having been raised in a big city almost as a white man, he honored the Indians’ small victory by taking what was due him. Over the long history of this country, the government had taken far too much.

He’d been fourteen the last time he’d been in the park, just before the huge fires of 1988 had reduced a third of it almost to wasteland. He drove past areas of dead lodgepole pines, standing sentinel like slashes of charcoal across an artist’s paper. At least they rose from thick carpets of green regrowth of shrubs and bushes. It caused a sharp pain in his chest to see such devastation. Despite scenes such as these, there were still large, healthy areas of forest and wildlife.

Although the main thrust of this journey wasn’t to revisit the park but to drive through it to spend time with his grandfather outside Yellowstone, he detoured for a quick look at something he remembered from his childhood. As an artist, he had particularly loved it.

As he followed the road to the Old Faithful geyser, a line of stopped cars loomed ahead. Logan slowed and braked behind them. Traffic in both directions on the two-lane road to the world famous geyser was stalled because three imposing brown bison—the largest in front and the others behind—were standing as still as bronze sculptures in the roadway.

Horns blared, and some people yelled at the beasts in hopes of getting them to move, but the buffalo stood motionless. It was far too dangerous to get too close to one of these wild animals because they’d killed some people who did, so visitors sat in their cars and talked to kill time until the huge beasts decided to amble across the street. One woman in short shorts and a blouse got out and took a photo with her iPhone before returning to her automobile. Logan wondered if she’d used an insect repellant, because if she hadn’t, all that exposed skin was going to become mighty uncomfortable when the mosquitoes came out this evening. Everything in Yellowstone was big, including its biting insects.

After a time, when his patience wore thin, Logan left his car and walked with soft steps to the first car blocked. Standing on the berm, well away from a wild animal that might whirl and gore him in an instant, he spoke in quiet, singsong Shoshone to the lead bison. It was what his great-grandfather would have done.

In the odd, five-note range of his chant, he shared tales of how important its ancestors had been to the Native peoples. How it had provided warmth, clothing, and shelter with its hides, food, and horn from which Logan’s own ceremonial knife had been carved. It was why he’d been given the name Buffalo Knife in his secret naming ceremony.

I honor the mighty buffalo, but it is time to leave the road that wears down your hooves with its hardness. Graze on the sweet grasses below instead and slake your thirst with fresh, cold waters from the flowing river.

The big head turned, and one big black eye zeroed in on him. The horn on that side had been broken in half. Logan froze, bowed his head, and lowered his gaze in respect, holding his breath as he focused on the sharp hooves a few feet away so he could get behind the car fast if they struck out. It was a bull, with huge gonads, and Logan thought it was a good thing this wasn’t mating season or it might have been horny and very cantankerous when a man approached.

The shaggy, humped creature took a measured step forward. Took another. As slow as the flow of tree sap in winter, the others followed.

Logan breathed again and smiled. Bison had been clocked running forty miles an hour, and he wondered if they had a humorous, stubborn streak when it came to inconveniencing the humans who had long ago invaded their territory.

Soon the road cleared, and cheers rose from the stalled cars as motors turned over and they rolled forward. As he approached his car and clicked, the driver’s door opened and lifted like a wing.

The woman with the iPhone snapped his picture. “Thank you!”

“Not a problem,” Logan called back and waved.

Logan started the motor. Had his chant truly released the big buffalo to move? He had no way of knowing. It had been so long since he’d experienced being Shoshone that a fierce feeling of pride in it and how he’d been able to speak the ancient language surprised him. He hadn’t felt right about this part of who he was in so many years he’d forgotten what it was like. After this small experience, it felt good. Oh, it wasn’t as if he’d return to live on the reservation. He wanted to continue living as white men did, but he no longer wanted to ignore the old ways of his heritage. That may have been part of the unconscious reason for coming to visit his grandfather.

Reflecting on the bull’s humongous s*x paraphernalia made him curious as to what the bulge in Blaze Canis’s worn jeans hid in his crotch. The urge to slip his hand inside those jeans and inside his shorts to cradle the fullness and heat there flared inside him. Go away, Coyote. Shoo! Stop giving me thoughts like this.

He took the road up to Old Faithful in the upper geyser basin, parked, and waited fifteen minutes or so until its hot waters spewed high into a deep blue sky free of even the hint of clouds. He walked past some of the other thermal pools, finding it a little unnerving to know a small one could spontaneously open up beneath him at any minute.

Most people came here to enjoy Old Faithful’s show, see the wildlife, and view the other hot pools around the park. They didn’t know they were walking on Yellowstone Caldera, an active supervolcano, with more geothermal features than anywhere else in the world. If you thought about, it could be very disturbing. Only the footsteps of the ignorant and the brave echoed here.